Inherit
by Spooky-Girl
Summary: He wasn't a bad father... Rated for abuse and language.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer : I own nothing, except this newfangled computer and a couple of random ideas.

A/N : Contains mild abuse, and probably language, but is in no way related to my previous story "There Be Monsters". Read, review, and keep 'em comin'!

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The first time his father hit him, Dean was five years old.

They were holed up in a cheap hotel outside Memphis, and Sammy was crying.

"Take care of him, Dean," John said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "You remember what I showed you, right?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, heading to the bed where one year old Sammy was sitting, wailing away.

The little boy pushed aside the pillows John had placed around Sammy so he didn't fall off the bed, and carefully moved the blocks his younger brother had been playing with.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said cheerfully, trying to unfasten the sleeper the one year old wore.

"Dean," John's voice said sharply. "In the bathroom, remember? We don't want him leaking on the bed."

Dean nodded, and carefully picked up his brother, carrying him slowly, trying to accommodate the weight. Sam weighed next to nothing, but to the scrawny 5 year old, it was enough to be a struggle.

"Careful, Dean," John reminded, not taking his eyes from the journal he was engrossed in. He just couldn't figure out this case. People were being killed, and he knew there had to be a link, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out _what._

He could hear his son singing cheerfully in the background, some nonsense song to sooth Sammy's nerves.

He sighed, trying to block out the noise.

"Dean!" he called. "Knock off that chatter."

No answer, just the same unintelligible stream of singing.

"Dean!" John called sternly.

Couldn't a man get a little peace? Lives were on his hands here...

He stood up, striding angrily into the bathroom.

"Dean!" he said sharply.

The little boy looked up, lips pursed mid song.

"Keep it quiet, okay?" John said, sighing and resting his hands on his hips. "I'm trying to work."

"Sorry, Daddy," Dean said, his eyes dimming slightly. "I was just singin' to Sammy."

"I know, buddy," John said, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. "But I need peace and quiet for a little while."

Dean nodded slowly.

"Ah, dammit," John said in a growl, kicking at the doorway.

What was he doing? He'd only just gotten Dean to start talking again, and here he was telling him to shut up?

"You know what?" John said, trying to make his voice a little lighter. "Why don't we go back into the room, and I'll let you have a soda... that sound good?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "A whole one?"

John smiled, knowing the boy couldn't drink a whole can of soda by himself, no matter how appealing the sugar seemed.

"Sure," he smiled, bending down to scoop the freshly changed toddler up.

Dean followed his father into the room, watching as he laid Sammy back on the bed, and rearranged the pillows.

"Keep an eye on him, Dean-o, and I'll go get your Coke."

Dean nodded happily.

John fingered the meager amount of change in his pocket and absently hoped he had enough for the drink he'd promised. As he walked the short distance to the Coke machine, he pulled the coins out and counted out fifty cents.

Rubbing his forehead in an attempt to ease the pressure gathering there, he inserted the coins and depressed the button, waiting for the insides of the machine to whirr and dispense his choice.

When the heavy can clanked into the opening at the bottom, he retrieved it and wiped the top off with the tail of his shirt, heading back to the room.

He'd locked the door, even though he'd been only a few feet away, so he held the can in one hand and unlocked the door, pushing it open to reveal his two sons sitting at his desk. Sam was on Dean's lap, arms waving furiously. He felt a smile start, until he realized what it was they were doing.

Coloring - on his carefully written notes.

"No!" he shouted, springing forward without thinking.

The Coke fell to the floor, hitting the carpet harmlessly with a soft thunk.

He wasn't thinking straight, he knew that the moment he felt his hands meet the solid flesh of Dean's shoulder, shoving them out and away from the desk. His eyes went to the journal, now a page full of tiny, cramped writing overruled by dark swirls of crayon - and almost as immediately turned, catching the chair in the corner of his eye.

He watched as it tipped, saw the wide eyed look on both boys face as gravity suddenly played against them, and - thank God - had the presence of mind to reach out and snatch Sammy from midair, cradling the boy to his chest, one hand resting protectively on the soft back of the child's skull.

And then Dean hit the ground.

A wail reached the boy's throat almost as soon as his head cracked against the ground.

John deposited Sam safely, if not unceremoniously, on the bed, and knelt at his oldest boy's side.

"Dean, hey," he said, picking the boy up and resting him on his knee. "Stop crying, buddy, and let me see."

Dean only wailed harder at his father's probing fingers.

John could already feel a knot forming on the back of his son's head, and cursed himself mentally. What had he been thinking? He'd _shoved_ his sons, his first instinct not being to protect them, but his precious journal.

"Dean, Dean," he repeated softly, pulling the boy to his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Daddy didn't mean it."

Almost as if he realized his brother was hurt, or maybe just offended at his rude disposal, Sam started to cry, too.

"Stop!" John barked at the child, turning his head back to Dean, who cried louder now, to be heard above his brother's wails.

"Dean, stop, hey, it's alright!" he tried, but the boy just scrunched up his face and cried harder.

"Come on, Dean, please?" he begged, the sounds of both boys cries filling the room. He could imagine the owner hearing the racket, coming down to kick them out, or calling the cops, or God only knew what else.

"STOP!" John roared frantically, grabbing Dean by the shoulders and shaking him hard.

Looking shocked, Dean stopped, blinked twice, and stared up at his father.

"Oh, God," John said, looking down and realizing his knuckles were turning white from holding the kid so hard. He loosened his grip. "Sorry... Dean, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to - "

Dean's lower lip trembled, and John thought for a minute he was going to cry again. Instead, he wrenched out of his father's grip and stumbled off his knee, stopping when his back hit the table a few steps away.

He looked shocked, John thought.

His throat tightened. "Dean..."

"That _hurt_, Daddy," Dean said, disbelief lacing his voice.

He stood there, feeling lost, while Dean just looked at him, eyes wide.

"I'm sorry, Dean," John said, his voice raw with emotion. "I really didn't mean to, bud. Come here and let me see."

Dean didn't move.

"Please?" John croaked, feeling like he might cry.

He'd hurt his child. Oh, _God,_ he'd hurt his boy.

Sam's cries subsided at the sudden silence in the room, and he poked his head over the top of the pillows, looking with wide eyed innocence.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Dean," John said, his heart breaking at the suspicion in his son's eyes.

Hesitantly, Dean took a step toward him. John held out his hand, urging him closer, until he could pull the boy into his arms and hug him.

And hug him he did, resting his chin on Dean's head, blinking back the tears he refused to acknowledge.

Dean squirmed.

Was he already getting too old to hug his father? John dreaded the thought.

He wriggled again, trying to get out of his father's grasp.

"Daddy," he said, finally. "Daddy, stop. That hurts."

"Oh, shit," John cursed out loud, pushing Dean back gently. "Let me see."

He gently lifted Dean's t-shirt and saw the red marks at his son's shoulders. they'd be bruises by tomorrow, and likely bad ones. John was a strong man, and he hadn't been thinking.

"Oh, Dean," he said hoarsely, staring at angry red on those tiny shoulders. "I'm sorry."

Looking uncomfortable, Dean patted John on the shoulder. "It's okay Daddy... don't be sad."

John stood up, taking a deep breath. "C'mere, bud."

He sat on the edge of the bed, resting a hand on Sam's tiny head for a moment while Dean climbed onto his lap.

"That won't happen again, okay?" he said. "I'm sorry. I was just mad. My journal's not a toy... you can't touch it without my permission, okay?"

Dean nodded gravely, and John had a feeling that was one lesson he wouldn't soon forget.

John swallowed, looking at the leather book on the desk, and found himself wanting to throw the damn thing against a wall. "Hey, what do you say you, me, and Sammy go get some ice cream?"

Dean's eyes widened. "Ice cream?"

John smiled at the obvious interest in his voice. "Yeah."

Dean's face lit up with a smile and he jumped off John's knee, racing to gather his jacket with only a hurried nod as acceptance.

John stood up, plastering on a smile for his son's benefit, while mentally berating himself.

Never again, he swore.

No one would lay a hand on his sons. Least of all their father.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N : Disclaimed.

It's not your usual abuse-fic. I promise.

---

The second time was a total accident.

Dean was nine, and Sammy a fresh five years old. They were celebrating his birthday in a greasy diner by the side of a road, the name of which John didn't know. They'd been traveling for days, busting ass to get to Michigan to help a friend of his on an important hunt.

He hadn't remembered it was Sammy's birthday until Dean leaned over the back seat and asked if they could stop somewhere soon.

"Why?" John asked, watching his son in the rearview. "I told you to go before we left the hotel."

Dean screwed up his face. "Dad, I'm not a baby, I _went._ I just wanted to find someplace to give Sammy his present."

"His present?" John asked blankly.

Dean nodded proudly. "Remember that hustle the last state back?"

John remembered all right. Remembered the disgust he felt at having to depend on his kid to help him con a man out of fifty bucks.

"Remember you told me to get new shoelaces?" Dean said, the pride leaving his voice, eyes suddenly downcast.

John had a feeling he knew where this was going.

"Well, I kinda... spent it."

"Dean!" John said angrily, reminding himself to watch the road. "I gave you an order, son."

The truth was, he hadn't noticed his son's laces were falling to pieces until Dean tripped during a training session, the result of broken laces that had been knotted back together in an attempt to make them last longer than they should. It was really no surprise he hadn't noticed afterwards either.

"I know, sir," Dean said, sinking back into the seat guiltily. "But I had to get Sammy a birthday present!"

John's heart sank.

"Present?" he said, swallowing harshly.

"I got him a football!" Dean said, suddenly excited again. "I knew you'd be mad, but he's turning 5, Dad, I had to get him something. Besides, it'll help with his c'ordination, right?"

John didn't answer, trying instead to figure out where the months had gone.

"You mad?" Dean asked softly. "It was only a buck fifty. It's just a crappy Nerf ball."

His son sounded so abashed that John wanted to kick himself. "No, I'm not mad."

Dean spoke hesitantly this time. "I know it's late an' all, but I thought maybe we could throw the ball around someplace. Just for a few minutes?"

"Dean, we really have to get to Michigan," John warned.

In his heart, he would like nothing more than to share a game of football with his sons, but a friend was counting on him, and he couldn't let him down.

"Tell you what," John said, seeing his son's face in the mirror. "Let's give it another hour or two and we'll have to stop for dinner anyway."

Dean's smile came back halfheartedly. "You can give Sam his present. And after this hunt, I promise, we'll teach him how to throw."

"Couldn't we play in the parking lot while you wait for the food?" Dean said hopefully.

"Dean..."

"But dad, we'd just be outside, and - "

"Dean," John said again, his voice taking on a no-nonsesne tone.

"Yes, sir," Dean said, sitting back with a frown.

True to his word, John stopped a little over an hour later and they found themselves seated in the cheap diner, Sam's face lit up with joy over the foam football perched in his lap.

He kept grinning so wide it made John wince. Dean had had to good grace to say "this is from _us_" when he'd handed over the football, but John still felt terrible he'd forgotten to buy him something, anything.

To make up for it, he let the boys order milkshakes, knowing they'd be up all night, but deciding they could use a little celebration.

"I'm going to the head," John announced after the waitress took their order. "Either of you have to go?"

Both boys shook their heads, Dean announcing, "We'll go before we leave."

John had to grin at that little barb.

He stepped into the bathroom and made quick work of it, wanting to get back as soon as possible. You never knew what kind of characters you'd find in a place like this at midnight.

He washed his hands and tossed the paper towel in an overflowing wastebasket, kicking the door open with the toe of his boot, and heading back to the table, wondering what he could get Sammy that wouldn't cost too much. Birthdays might take a back seat to more important business, but he couldn't altogether ignore it. That would be a kick in the teeth to his late wife, like saying their children weren't worth celebrating.

He blinked as he walked into the dining room, wondering if he'd somehow gotten turned around. It was impossible... he was John Winchester, after all. But his boys weren't there, so -

He turned around to make sure he hadn't been too caught up in his thoughts and walked right past the table. But no, the diner was empty.

He raced to the cash register and dinged the bell that sat there with the words "ring for service" written in marker on a piece of cardboard beside it.

The waitress appeared, looking tired.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"My boys," he said by way of explanation.

"Oh!" she smiled. "They went to toss the football around. I know it's late, but we've got lots of lights outside, and no one comes in this time on a weekday. The older one said you wouldn't mind."

Wouldn't mind?

Wouldn't _mind?_

John minded, all right. He was downright pissed.

He didn't bother to thank her, as she disappeared into the back, but pushed his way out the door and stalked angrily into the parking lot.

Sure enough, there was Dean, his striped t-shirt blazing in the flood lights. And there, Sammy, arms held out awkwardly, trying to catch the ball Dean arched toward him.

"Dean!" he shouted.

Both boys froze, turned, and tried to smile innocently, knowing they were caught.

"What the hell were you thinking?" John shouted, grabbing Dean by the neck of his shirt. "Do you know what could have happened to you?!"

Dean looked like he as going to apologize, then had a change of heart. "I wanted to show Sammy how to throw the ball!"

"I told you no, Dean," John said darkly. "You boys could have been -"

"What?" Dean asked, exasperated. "Killed? We're not on a hunt, Dad, we're in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere. Nothing's going to happen!"

John smacked the boy before he even realized what he was doing.

The boy grabbed his cheek and toppled ungracefully onto the stone parking lot.

"I gave you an order, Dean, and that's not to be disobeyed," John said, reaching down to pull the boy up. "You could have been hit by a car, kidnapped, God knows there's enough stories about what lurks in the woods. You should know better."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam gaping. "Get inside, Sam."

He turned back to Dean, not liking the hint of fear he saw in those eyes.

"I'm trying to protect you, Dean," John said. "Why do you insist on making it so hard for me?"

Dean tucked his chin to his chest and mumbled an apology under his breath.

"What did you say?" John asked, reaching out to tilt his chin up.

To his surprise, Dean flinched.

"Aw, dammit, Dean," he said. "Do you know how scared I was when I walked out there and you two were missing? I can't lose you."

Dean looked down, his eyes filled with shame.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he sighed. "I didn't mean to hit you."

"I know," Dean mumbled. "I'm sorry, Dad."

"It won't happen again," John said, the words sounding familiar for some reason. "I can't stress the importance of you following my orders. This isn't a game, son. You don't do what I say, you could end up dead."

Dean nodded slowly.

"Sorry, Dad," he repeated.

"Let's go in and eat, huh?" John wrapped his arm around Dean's shoulders. "Sammy's waiting, and your shakes are probably melted by now."

"Sam's got a decent arm," Dean offered as they walked.

"He does?" John asked.

"Well, yeah," Dean said. "For a spaz."

"Dean," John warned.

His son offered him a small smile, and John had to grin in return. Ruffling his hair, he playfully pushed Dean to the door.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N : Keep those reviews coming! I'll try to update more quickly, I've been working on another chapter, so I have on in reserves if you guys like this one.

---

As far as anyone remembered, the incident from when Dean was five had never happened. Sam had been a baby, Dean was too young to remember it clearly and John was unwilling. The parking lot scene from Sam's fifth birthday went untalked about, shoved into the back of their minds and all but forgotten.

After Sam's fifth birthday, John tried his damnedest to be sure he wouldn't miss another. And he swore never to raise a hand to either boy ever again.

But on Dean's eleventh birthday, money was tight, and he was forced to choose - a pair of new sneakers Dean had been eyeing, or food in their bellies. He was sorely tempted to buy those damned shoes anyway, but some things were more important. His boys were strong, but too skinny, the product of too many night gone hungry. He spent the money on food.

Dean was thoughtful enough to keep his mouth shut the whole morning, pretending he'd forgotten it was even his birthday, but Sam woke up bouncing with energy saying, "Dean, it's your birthday!"

"Big deal," Dean said with a roll of his eyes.

If only, John thought, looking up from cleaning his gun.

"Hey, Dean, c'mere," he said.

Dean walked over slowly, not meeting his father's eyes.

"I'm sorry I can't get you those shoes," he said, and meaning it.

"So?" Dean said scornfully. "They're stupid anyway. I like the ones I have."

John looked down to the battered tennis shoes, and wondered if that was a hole on the side or just dirt. He shook his head. Dean _needed_ new shoes.

"Look," he said, "I'll go to the bar tonight, play some pool, and see if I can't win enough to get you those shoes."

"No," Dean said adamantly. "I don't need any stupid freaking shoes."

"Dean," John warned. "Language."

Dean pulled away from him and scoffed. "You say worse every day, what do you care if I cuss?"

"Not in front of Sammy," John said slowly.

And true, the seven year old was staring at them, absorbing everything they said.

"Who cares about stupid Sam?" Dean said in a fierce whisper, and bolted for the door. "All you care about is Sam!"

John followed him, slamming the door shut behind them. "What the _hell_ is that all about, Dean Winchester?"

"Nothing," Dean said angrily. "I's just a stupid birthday? Who even cares that I was born?"

"I do!" John said, wondering where this was coming from. Surely Dean wasn't actually jealous of his little brother?

"Sure," Dean said, whirling away and taking an angry stomp towards the Impala.

"Don't walk away when I'm talking to you, young man!" John said, reaching out and grabbing hold of Dean's arm to yank him back.

He heard the crack before he felt the bone give. The minute he did, he snatched his arm back like he'd reached into a flame.

Dean didn't cry out. He simply blinked, going pale, and sort of swayed.

John fought off nausea as he realized he'd just broken his son's arm.

"Dean, I -"

He was cut off as Dean looked down in confusion, then swallowed hard.

"Son..."

"Dad?"

John looked up to see the door of their hotel room open slightly, Sam sticking his head out as if to see if the coast was clear.

"Get in the car, Sammy," John said hollowly. "Dean's had an accident."

Dean looked at his father, but didn't correct him, instead walking in a daze to the car and letting himself into the backseat.

That hurt, John realized. Dean had been so big on riding up front with his old man lately.

He drew in a deep breath, and cursed himself.

_John, you idiot...you said this wouldn't happen again._

He slid in behind the wheel and started the car, driving in a daze to the hospital.

He left Sam sitting in a chair in the waiting room, keeping a well trained eye on his youngest from the nurses station, lump forming in his throat when the pretty young nurse asked, "What seems to be the problem?"

"His arm," John offered thickly. "It's...I think it's broken."

The nurse rolled up the sleeve of Dean's jacket, and John felt the room get smaller as he realized there was already bruising. Bruising in the shape of a large hand.

"What happened here?" the nurse said suspiciously.

John could practically see her reaching for the forms, labeling this as child abuse, trying to get his kids taken away from him.

Before he could even think of what to offer, Dean spoke up in a small voice.

"I wasn't watching," he said, looking at his shoes, the very picture of a kid ashamed. "I walked out in front of a car. My dad yanked me back onto the sidewalk."

Those inquiring eyes again turned to John. "Your father did this?"

Piercing hazel eyes met her own.

"He saved my life," Dean said. "He saved my life."

John felt about an inch high as the woman coddled Dean, saying how scary that must have been, how he had to be more careful. And Dean, bless his heart, just sat there and nodded along as the woman placed an ice pack on his arm and directed them towards X-ray.

He shuffled along with his son, Sammy scampering ahead, interested in everything he saw.

"You know I didn't mean to, right?" John asked. _My name is dirt._

Dean nodded, but didn't speak.

"It's just... sometimes I forget you're still a kid."

John rubbed the back of his neck, flushed with embarrassment. "You're getting good, you and your brother. I sometimes forget how young you are."

Dean looked up curiously. "You really think we're getting good?"

John lifted his head. He didn't hate him? All he could do was nod.

"You shoot better than most guys I know, Dean," he said honestly. "And your brother... it's scary, sometimes. I forget you're still kids. I shouldn't, but I do. You're my boys... you're hunters."

Dean's eyes shone with pride, and he stopped slouching, cradling his arm to his chest. "Really?"

"What else would you be?" John asked, trying hard to smile around the lump in his throat. "You're a Winchester."

They joined Sam, who was trying to peek into the X-Ray room with obvious interest.

"What's that do, Daddy?" he asked, pointing at the complicated looking machinery.

"It takes pictures of your bones," John said, looking down at Dean's swollen wrist. "To see if they're broken."

"Dean's broken?" Sam looked up with fright evident in his brown eyes.

"No, Sammy," Dean said with a roll of his eyes. "Just my arm."

"What happened?" Sam asked for the first time that night. "How'd you get hurt? We weren't even doin' nothin' dangerous or trainin' or nothin'!"

"Shh, Sammy," Dean said, looking around to make sure no one was around to interpret that, and fed his little brother the story he'd told the nurse.

John bit down on the ease with which is son said that and the grace with which his younger son accepted it. He didn't know whether to be sad or angry.

"You gotta be careful and look both ways," Sam nodded, sitting back in a plastic chair and kicking his feet. "Like they teach in school."

"Yeah, Sammy, you do," Dean agreed.

John drowned out their conversation with teh guilt that flooded his mind until an X-Ray tech came and ushered Dean into the room and closed the door. Then he fielded Sam's questions about what was going on, if Dean was okay and was he coming back?

"Of course he is," John said, perplexed. "Why wouldn't he be?"

"'Cause Mommy didn't," Sam said, like it was obvious.

John blanched. He hadn't tried to hide the truth from his boys, but it still shocked him when either of them talked about it. It was a sort of unspoken rule that it just wasn't to be brought up. It was too painful for all of them.

He tried to remind himself that Sam was just at the age where he was curious and wanted an answer to everything.

"I'd be sad if Dean went away, too," Sam said thoughtfully. Almost as an afterthought he added, "And you, too, Daddy."

John didn't think twice about lifting is son from the chair and giving him a great big hug.

Before he knew it, the tech came out with Dean, who was gritting his teeth in pain, and gave them directions to a curtained off room where a doctor would be with them shortly.

Seated there, John dug in his pocket for a dollar and told Sam to go get them something to drink.

"By myself?" Sam asked, wide eyed at this sudden act of freedom.

"Yeah," John said. "Can't get in much trouble here, now can ya?"

Sam laughed at the wink his father gave him, and made tracks to find a soda machine.

Alone with Dean, John felt suddenly uncomfortable.

"Dad?" Dean spoke up.

"Yeah?" John replied, his voice sounding too loud to his ears. He cleared his throat, repeated himself.

"It's okay," Dean said, his eyes compassionate behind the pain. "I know you didn't mean it."

In that moment, his heart broke. Like he'd done with Sam, he granted his son a rarely given hug, and held on for dear life. Dean didn't even bother to shrug him off and complain he was too old for it this time.

That was how the doctor found them, and frowned as he pulled the curtain shut behind him.

"I want to hear how this happened," the doctor said without preamble.

John didn't bother speaking up, knew that to do so would be suspicious. He trusted his son, a skilled liar, and even as he felt bad about it, he knew that his line of work called for it.

Dean had perfected his kid-in-trouble act. He managed a blush and looked down at his arm. "I kinda..."

He looked at his Dad, as if begging not to say it.

John cleared his throat.

"I walked out in front of a car," Dean said with a huff. He glared at his Dad. "And you can spare me the lecture _again_. I already heard it enough from my brother.

He turned his eyes to the doctor and stressed, "My _baby_ brother. I'm never gonna live this down."

"So... you're trying to tell me you got hit by a car?" the doctor asked, suspicion rising a level or five.

John almost panicked.

Dean laughed out loud. "No, duh. My Dad -" he broke off to beam at his dad, the hero - "grabbed me and pulled me back. I lost my basketball, though."

"We'll get you another," John said, shrugging to the doctor as if to say "boys will be boys".

The doctor cleared his throat again but obviously found nothing wrong with the story.

"Well, Mr..." he paused to look at the chart. "...Adams. It looks like a definite fracture. Nothing too serious, but it'll keep him out of commission for a few weeks."

He paused again to look over the chart again, then nodded to himself. "We'll go ahead and cast him here, but we'll want to see him in about a month to check on the healing."

John nodded. _We'll be long gone by then._

The doctor regarded Dean with a serious look. "And you, be more careful. And no basketball till that cast comes off."

"Aww, man," Dean groaned, heaving a sigh.

Sam skidded into the little alcove holding two cans of soda in his hands, and looked up at the doctor with wide eyes.

"Is my brother broken?" he asked, even as his Dad pulled him onto his lap and handed Dean a can of cold soda.

"I'm afraid so," the doctor said gravely. "But don't worry, we'll fix him right up."

Sam grinned. "Can I watch?"

"I don't see why not," the doctor said with a smile.

An hour later, they exited the hospital, Dean with a bright white cast, and Sam with a white rubber glove, blown up and tied off.

John took them for pizza, and they sang Happy Birthday to Dean over the last slice.

John would remember it as the night he broke his son's arm.

Sam would remember it as the best birthday ever.

Dean just tried to forget.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N : Sorry for the delay, I've been out of the country. I'm back now, and updating, so please, douse the torches and put away the pitchforks!

---

"Sammy!"

John heard his son's shout of surprise and wheeled around, his attention turning to his boys before the corpse of the demon even hit the ground. His eyes wildly searched the darkness before he finally picked out the flash of metal against the moon. In a matter of seconds, he could see the scene as it played out, one son on the ground rubbing his chest and looking stunned. The other weaving an impressive dance around the seven foot demon opposing him.

"Dean!" John called a warning as the demon's fourth arm swung He was cursing himself as the words left his mouth. He knew better than to call out like that when Dean was in the middle of a fight. But he was only thirteen, still too young to handle a fight this size on his own.

Where had the second demon come from?

Dean's head swung in the direction of his father's voice like he knew it would, and saw the blow hit home, like he knew it would.

He was already in motion, covering ground fast, but they were so far away, and he was forced to watch as his oldest boy joined his brother on the ground.

John's stomach turned as Dean's head snapped to the side, and swore he could hear the soft thud as he fell.

Almost there.

Rage boiling the blood in his veins, he brought the machete down on the demon, severing its head in one swift blow, a war cry escaping his throat.

The demon went down hard, and he knew it wasn't getting back up. He spun on his heel, assessing the surrounding woods, making sure there were no more of the sneaky bastards waiting to ambush.

Satisfied that they were out of danger, John sheathed the blade. His eyes searched, unsure of which boy to go to first. Sammy, only nine, was clutching his ribs and gasping for breath, but the power behind that blow... he'd be lucky if the demon hadn't snapped Dean's neck.

"Sammy," he barked, dropping to his knees by Dean's prone body, "you alright?"

From a short distance Sam replied in a shaky voice, "Y-yeah. I think."

John placed two fingers to Dean's neck, praying silently, and let out a shaky breath when a pulse thrummed in response.

"Thank God," he muttered.

He stood, rushing to Sam's side, and helped his youngest up. "Ribs?"

Sam nodded, cringed. "It snuck up on us, Dad."

"Dean should have been more careful," John muttered, shaking his head at the grimace that passed his son's lips.

"No, Dad," Sam started to say, but John was dragging him back to where Dean lay, dropping down again to gently shake him.

"Dean," John said softly. "Wake up, son."

Dean groaned, but didn't stir.

"Shit," John cursed. "Shit, shit, shit..."

A blow like that...he'd been lucky. Damn lucky.

Settling his son gently so that Dean was flat on his back, John looked for any sign of outward injury.

"Sam, can you get me the light?" John said, directing a nod to the pack that had been abandoned long before.

Sam nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on Dean's ashen face.

"Sam!" John shouted. "Now."

Sam nodded again and stumbled over to the pack, digging through it to find a flashlight. He returned in a moment, fumbling to get it lit.

"Here," he said, passing it to his father.

John played the beam across Dean's pale features, and cursed when he immediately found a stain of red pooling in his hair. He probed the wound; it was bleeding profusely, but head wounds often did. He had no way of knowing how bad it was until he could get it cleaned out.

"Dean," he said, softly this time. "Wake up, kid."

He groaned again, and John gently slapped his cheek. "That's it..."

Dean's eyes fluttered, opened. Blinking to clear his blurry vision, he looked at his father in confusion. "Dad?"

John let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "How's the head?"

Dean reached a tentative hand up, and winced as his fingers found the tender area. "I...fine..."

John frowned. "Okay, you know the routine."

His gaze was unfocused as it sought out his father's face.

"Do you know where you are?" John directed.

"Sammy?" Dean asked.

He shot a look at the youngest boy, who now knelt with an arm wrapped around his ribs, looking incredibly small and scared.

John felt anger rise. "Fine, no thanks to you."

"What'd I do?" Dean asked, frowning slightly.

He sounded so sad, so confused, that John felt the anger slip a bit.

"You should have been watching him," he said softly.

"Sam's...hurt?" Dean said, carefully forming his words. "Where?"

"I'm right here, Dean," Sam piped up.

"Sammy..." Dean's glassy eyed stare went slightly to the left, but seemed to be looking past Sam rather than at him.

"Dean, where are you?" John tried again.

He closed his eyes for a moment and John feared he might be drifting off again. "Wake up, son!"

The stern words did the trick, and Dean's eyes opened again.

"Don't know," he said finally. "My head hurts."

"I know," John said. "Work with me, okay? Try to remember."

Dean screwed up his face. "I can't."

"Focus, Dean," John said. "Work past the pain. I know it hurts, but this is important."

His son sighed softly. "I don't _know._"

He closed his eyes again, and John slapped his cheek again. "Dean, stay with me."

"Mmm...?"

"Dean!" John said.

When he got no reply, Sam asked tentatively, "Daddy?"

John spared a glance in his direction.

"Is Dean dying?"

He looked so terrified, his breath coming in panicky gasps.

"No," John insisted. "No. He's...Dean! Wake _up_!"

Dean didn't answer, just lay there looking still and white.

"Dean!" John said, panicking. He laid a head to his son's chest, heard a heartbeat, and said again, "Wake up, Dean!"

"Daddy, Daddy," Sam wailed. "Fix him! Dean, wake up!"

Sam began to cry, and John snapped.

"Shut up, Sam! Dean, wake up, dammit!"

He grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him. "Wake up!"

"Daddy, don't hurt him!" Sam cried.

"I'm _not," _John cried. "Stop crying!"

Dean moaned in pain and opened his eyes. He looked at his father with vacant eyes, and John immediately stopped shaking him.

"Dad?" Dean asked.

"I'm here, son," John said. "Stay with me this time."

"Dad..." Dean said again, drifting. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" John asked, not understanding. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

"I let Sammy get hurt..." Dean said, whispering now. "Please."

"Please what?" he leaned in close to better hear his son's plea.

"Don't hurt me..."

John's stomach sank.

He shook his head. He hadn't laid a hand on him in years, hadn't hurt him. He wouldn't hurt him, never again. What would make Dean think he would?

"Daddy?" Sam's voice cut into his thoughts.

"Let's go, son," John said, steadying his voice.

He leaned down to scoop Dean up in his arms.

"Get the bag."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N : Well, here it is. The last chapter of the story. While I feel it's a bit rushed, it works, and I like it. Perhaps I'll somehow manage to work up a sequel, perhaps not. Either way, I'm happy with this story. Hope y'all are, too...hint, hint! ;)

---

More than once John Winchester had made a solemn promise. To himself, to his wife, and to Dean. He swore he would never lay a hand on him again. He swore he would never hurt his boys. He would not let anger get the best of him.

But somehow, when Dean stumbled through the door drunk five years under the legal age, he couldn't help himself. He'd lashed out, and Dean ended up with a shiner. They told Sam he'd been injured on a hunt, and that was that.

He apologized an hour later, and given Dean his favorite knife, saying, "Don't let it happen again, okay? I'm sorry."

Dean only smiled, accepted the knife, and spent the next hour honing the blade to a deadly sharpness.

---

And again, when Dean was 17, and John caught him driving the Impala back from some dive at three in the morning. He'd woken up to find his son's bed empty, and spent two hours worrying before he heard the Impala's engine cut off, and saw Dean coax it into the parking lot. He'd beaten him almost unconscious before Dean even set foot on the sidewalk. While Sam slept unaware inside, Dean curled into a ball, trying to deflect the damage from his father's steel toed boots.

John counted to himself, _one for stealing the car. One for sneaking out. One for being where he shouldn't be. One for scaring the shit out of me._

By the time he'd come to his senses, Dean was spitting blood and begging his father to stop.

He'd stumbled back, unable to believe he'd done this kind of damage.

He started crying, and Dean, barely holding himself upright, was so shocked by this display of emotion, that he was the one apologizing, comforting his father with a hand on his shoulder.

"If something happened to you..." John sobbed. "What would I do, Dean? What would I do?"

And Dean said, "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry."

---

There were incidents here and there, little things that almost weren't worth remembering. Slaps and shoves and occasional punches. Some bruises and a busted rib here, a chipped tooth from the bathroom sink and a broken finger or two there.

They never told Sam, and Sam never caught on.

Dean took it with a quiet acceptance, and John always apologized. He always said he was sorry, and Dean always forgave him, because his father was not a monster.

He was doing the best he knew how.

But when Dean was twenty, and Sammy sixteen, John raised his hand to Sam for the first time.

They were holed up in some hotel outside of Nevada, and Sam brought up, also for the first time, that he wanted to go to college. He would be graduating soon, he said, and it was time to start looking.

John snorted and said, "You're not going to college."

And Dean winced when Sammy stuck his chest out and insisted that yes, he was.

The fight that ensued was heated, and Dean found his stomach turning as he watched them. Never had he instigated his father like this, and he knew there was only one way it would end.

John Winchester always had the last word. And it wasn't a word you disobeyed. No, by now he knew better.

And before he knew it, his father's hand drew back.

Sam's eyes took on an almost comical wideness, his jaw literally falling as he realized his father's intent.

And Dean, like a flash, so fast even he didn't know how he got there, was suddenly in between them. He put himself between his father and his brother and did something he'd never done before.

He grabbed his father's wrist before the fist could land, and with strength he didn't know he possessed, he said, "No."

John blinked, the tone so icy he had to check to make sure this was really Dean.

He pushed against the grip, testing it, and his son's fingers bit into the skin, knuckles turning white.

Deans eyes bore into his own, dark and frightening, and in a whisper he hissed, "Not Sammy."

"_Not Sammy_," he repeated, shaking his head.

John let his fist fall to his side. He had no doubt that Dean would kick his ass there and back for not listening to him.

He was warning him. His eyes, shining and feverish, told him, _I won't let you make this mistake again._

It was the first time Dean had fought back.

John swallowed, stepped back, and wheeled around.

"I'll be at the bar," he said, and was gone.

He spent the rest of the night getting drunk enough to forget what he'd done, what he'd tried to do.

It was the last time he ever raised a hand to Sam.

---

Years later, Sam was saying, "I'll tell you one thing. We're lucky we had Dad."

Dean faltered. "I never thought I'd hear you say that."

"Well, he could've gone a whole 'nother way after Mom. A little more tequila, a little less demon-hunting, and we would've had Max's childhood," Sam said. "All things considered, we turned out okay—thanks to him."

Dean swallowed hard.

"All things considered."

---


End file.
